


All That Is Left Behind

by Cuda (Scylla)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel in the Bunker, First Kiss, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Sastiel - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-16 17:22:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12347175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scylla/pseuds/Cuda
Summary: Sam connects with his family through the pages of John Winchester's journal. Castiel makes a suggestion that shifts the course of their relationship - and its legacy - forever. Good thing the binding is nice and tight.





	All That Is Left Behind

The rooftop of the Men of Letters bunker was two parts concrete slab to one part Art Deco sculpture garden, and mostly unpeopled the vast majority of the time, and Sam Winchester loved it for all of these things. You wouldn't think a place as big and lonely as this could feel crowded, plonked in the middle of Nowhere, Kansas like a pioneer cemetery.

Maybe it was Dean's massive personality filling the cracks. Maybe the bunker's ghosts.

Either way, when Sam found the roof, he made it his. He wasn't much for nesting - never had been - but he swept it clean and tested it for soft spots, patched a few areas with some plywood and tarp from the basement workroom. He brought up a folding chair, too - a camp chair, old, sturdy, and secondhand. Choosing a permanent chair specifically for himself was as good as posting a sign at the top of the steps saying "Sam Winchester's territory: keep out."

He came up here to think. To meditate. To move through a few _asanas_ , when the noise in his head was overwhelming and his skin felt inside out. To read for pleasure. He liked it when it was so cold that his butt went numb, and when it was so hot the stone stung his hands and made the forest ripple.

It wasn't a safe place, but he pretended it was. Safe places - even pretend ones - were in short supply.

* * *

John Winchester's journal was battered and waterstained, and more of a father to Sam in some ways than the man who penned it. He spread it open on his knees in the full October sun, its pages not so blinding now as time yellowed the paper.

The journal belonged to both brothers, of course, as did most things. But lately, it fell more often into Sam's custody than Dean's. He wasn't sure why. Maybe it was a symptom, maybe it was just happenstance. They processed their grief separately when it came to Dad; reaching out to one another but never quite on the same wavelength. Never quite spotting one another on the path.

Sam took it out now for no reason in particular. A warm Fall Sunday alone in the Bunker; Dean safe and headed home from a hunt that was three quarters weekend roadtrip. Maybe at some point he had ideas of researching, of answering a question he'd been carrying a while. Those reasons were left long ago as he propped his heels on the ledge of stone around the observatory dome, knees pointed up almost to his chin as he slouched in a camp chair on the roof.

Dad's handwriting was cramped and sharp, every line an impatient slash. His descriptions sometimes bordered on florid, editorialized to the level of an Ancient Astronaut Theory 'documentary' on Netflix. In the lines Sam heard his voice. Dad's sadness soaked the words like the smell of his aftershave, faint and lingering in the leather cover. The sun warmed the hide, releasing a molecule or two more than usual, and Sam closed his eyes.

He knew the stories in the journal so well, he could read them without looking. Could feel a warmth rising to the presence of his own name in them as he heard John say it in his mind. His family lived in these words in a way they never had in front of him. His mother was here - idealized by a grieving husband - but offered him in the scraps of truth between sadnesses nonetheless.

"What are you searching for?" Castiel asked. His voice was shocking as a thunderclap, breaking the golden stillness of the afternoon. Sam jumped, spinning to see Castiel - always too close - at his shoulder. The journal hit the stone pavers on the roof.

Sam fumbled for it, and fumbled for a thing to say. "Hey Cas, nothing really," he said, dropping his feet from the ledge as he reached for the journal. It vanished before his fingers could touch it, as Castiel scooped it up.

The angel held it with a certain reverence, holding it out from himself as if afraid he might soil it. It filled the breadth of his palm and spilled over it, and Sam was put in mind of a chorister holding a hymnal. He huffed at himself and smiled. Of course. Religious symbolism was an easy reach in Castiel's presence.

"This is your father's journal," Castiel observed, and smoothed the volume gently closed. He offered it back to Sam.

"Uh, yeah," Sam replied, "I don't know. I hadn't looked at it in a while."

Castiel took a seat on the ledge of the dome, hands on his knees. He regarded Sam in silence, as if he supposed his end of the conversation would be held up by his presence alone. Or maybe he was waiting.

Sam's chest flickered with frost at the thought that maybe he had news. Maybe something had happened to Dean since his last check-in. But that couldn't be right. If Dean was in danger, Castiel wouldn't sit.

"If everything okay, Cas?" Sam nudged, just in case.

Castiel's expression closed. "Yes," he said, already on his feet again, "I apologize, Sam. I'm intruding."

The rooftop had been his haven. Claimed as much as Sam would allow himself, with a regular sweeping and a battered Goodwill camp chair tucked away from the rain. He liked being alone up here, but at Castiel's words the idea was suddenly unappealing. Sam reached out to him, blind, for a sleeve or a wrist. "No, wait--"

They both stopped cold, eyes on the fingers that linked them now. Sam's hand was - huge and clumsy and rough by comparison - wrapped around Castiel's.

Well. Not exactly the plan, but it worked.

"Sam?" Castiel asked, as Sam failed to finish his sentence.

He let go of the fingers he'd caught by accident, the memory of Castiel's cool skin still faintly kissing his palm. "You aren't intruding. You can stay if you want."

The worry lines furrowed a little deeper in Castiel's brow, then smoothed. "It's fine. You obviously weren't anticipating any company," he offered, an apology in his voice, and fidgeted. Lonely, maybe, Sam thought. Did angels get lonely? Everyone got lonely, wings and a halo or not. Christianity sold a concept of God that filled the pit of emptiness, but Sam and Castiel - maybe more than most people - knew better. Missing family made a void no amount of faith could touch.

Sam blew out a breath on a laugh. He waved Castiel back towards the ledge he'd vacated. "Come on, Cas. Sit down."

Castiel sat. Like a cat on a narrow fence. Like he wasn't sure it would hold. Sam's next smile made itself happen, before he felt it coming.

"So, yeah," Sam picked up the dropped threads of the conversation, squinting at Castiel through the sun, "I don't know, I missed Dad a little. Reading his journal helps."

Sam didn't know what he expected. Curiosity? More questions? Definitely not surprise.

"Yes," Castiel said, and the word was as fragile as the way he sat on the stones, "I've done that from time to time, myself. The Bible, mostly. Occasionally the Book of Winchester, although I doubt they'll ever be folded into the Word."

By which, he meant the Supernatural book series. Sam squirmed. Every time he thought about those books, he felt naked. "That's, um. That's cool. Glad to know someone else feels the same way."

"You should keep a hunter's journal, like your father's," Castiel blurted. His abrupt ferocity was followed by an autumn wind gust. Leaves on the roof skittered and scraped.

"You think so, huh?" Sam asked, trying not to laugh.

"I do. You won't live forever, and if eventually you'll only be words to me, I'd prefer they be your words."

Sam's eyebrows jumped at that. He paused, eyes skating over Castiel's face for even a trace of humor. "That's pretty dark, Cas, even for you."

The sober look continued. Maybe a little pity softened it up, Sam thought acidly; pity for the poor mortal.

Castiel said nothing.

"Look," Sam sighed, "If I need to take notes, I have my laptop. I'm not great at writing."

"That's the point, Sam."

"That I suck? Anyway, I think Dad's pretty much got the bases covered--"

"Many things have changed since your father wrote those words," Castiel argued, hands pushed into the pockets of his coat in what always seemed a defensive pose to Sam, "your view of the events that have transpired could be of great use."

"Who am I gonna leave it to?" Sam challenged, "Claire? Alex? _Ripley's Believe It or Not_?"

Castiel's hands appeared again, lifted in surrender. His gaze veered Sam's. "I apologize. I need to go."

Flushing, stomach hollowed out with regret, Sam reached out again. "Cas, I'm--"

But Castiel was wind in his fingers.

* * *

The subject of the journal was sidelined, as crisis practically followed Dean home. Time passed in waves of chaos and calm until Sam found himself alone again on a long, cold night drive to Texas in March. He stopped at a 24-hour massive department store and legged it around the main track a few laps, just to wake himself up. They didn't stop at places like this much, and the brightness of it hurt his eyes. It was empty, but full of earmarks of the American Dream. There were shelves of pillows and shelves of gardening equipment, and nobody there to use them. Ray Bradbury stories could be written about it, Sam thought; almost creepier than some of the graveyards they'd lurked in.

He passed an endcap full of bright red clearance tags, and paused. In the jumble of things was a three-ring planner, like John's journal except done up in green canvas. Despite being new, it was fat with blank pages.

Eventually, you'll only be words to me. The memory surfaced unbidden as he picked up the planner and laid it open in his hand. Flipped the tabs, slow, from calendar to notes to international time zones, weights and measures. A clear plastic ruler punched in three places made a bookmark.

In his thoughts he saw it age, fade, yellow like his father's. A department store clearance journal would fall to pieces. Surely, Sam thought, surely let this not be all that Castiel has left of me.

He dropped it back on the pile.

* * *

Six hours later, fainting over a cup of coffee, he'd almost have chalked the whole scene up to a sleep-deprived hallucination.

Until he turned, and nearly collided with Castiel's elbow.

To his credit, Sam swallowed his yelp. The angel's eyes were not on him, but on the thick white diner mug curled in his fingers. "I heard you," Castiel said, voice as dry as an old leaf. His eyes were slow to find Sam's. When they did, Sam sipped a breath.

Castiel offered a brown paper parcel. Hesitant. It was warm from his pocket. Sam wondered, abstract, where his pockets went when he wasn't borrowing Jimmy Novak.

"This will last," Castiel said, "if you--if you want it."

The parcel was fat and tied with jute, its corners worn like Castiel had been carrying it around for a while.

And maybe he had.

It looked like the kind of thing Laura Ingalls could buy at the general store. Like a thing out of its time, in its brown paper and jute tied up in a prim bow. Of course Castiel wouldn't use tape. Castiel using tape would probably end up causing an international incident or something.

Sam untied the string. The paper fell open in his hands, and there was a journal.

It was not like John's. Sam had been - sort of dreading that.

The covers were some sort of honey-colored wood, solid and polished to a soft sheen. Coarse green fabric bound the two slabs together, stitched to the wood. Inside, however, the journal was almost identical to the one he'd grown up reading.

But blank.

A blank, hunter's journal. Pages to fill, with symbols and creatures and spells. Pages to leave behind.

"You will always be more than this, Sam Winchester," Castiel added, soft and tentative. Reaching. Offering.

Sam turned the pages with growing trepidation. He thought about burying the journal in a drawer. The thing looked handmade, but maybe Castiel just picked it up somewhere. Maybe he wouldn't care if Sam just--

He turned a chunk of pages, and froze.

There, where the department store planner had a plastic ruler as a bookmark, Castiel dropped a stunning punctuation mark on that offer. It was an angel's feather, perfect, sandwiched in glass. Sam knew it by the way his fingertips buzzed as he touched the slender sheath of glass. Guessed it was Castiel's, from the faint, cream chevrons running down the white quill. God knew he'd seen enough of them.

"I should go," Castiel said, uncomfortable as the silence spun out.

Sam reached, this time deliberate, and dropped his palm over Castiel's loose fist on the counter. "Cas, wait."

Under his touch, Castiel stilled.

It took a little longer than Sam would have liked, to figure out what he meant to say. When the words began to come, however, they raced like lightning. "I don't know why you think I'm gonna be any good at this. Like I have something to say that you couldn't get from some hunter with better handwriting. But I realized, something I've always hated about this life, is how we only ever talk about how to kill things, when there's so much more than that. If this is my journal, it doesn't have to be that way."

For the first time in months, Castiel smiled at him. Slow, soaking in like rain in good earth.

"That's why," Castiel said, " _that,_ is why."

"So I'm gonna do it. Try, anyway."

"I look forward to hearing about your progress."

* * *

A few weeks passed before they saw one another again. Castiel made a planned visit to the bunker this time, even deigning to climb up the ladder to the roof like a civilized person. He found Sam sprawled in his camp chair, feet on the ledge of the observatory dome like usual, twisting a pen in his mouth while he searched for words. Sam looked up at the sound of his name, and read radiant pleasure in every corner of Castiel's face.

He couldn't draw. Not like Dad. But Sam had filled pages and pages with stories and symbols already. "I'm going to need more paper," he said, sheepish.

"That won't be a problem," Castiel replied with a shy smile, and came to stand over his shoulder. His shadow dropped across Sam's handiwork.

"I wrote about angels today," Sam said slyly, dropping his head back to meet Castiel's eyes. The sun made a halo around his head, and Sam squinted.

"If you have any questions, I'm happy to supply information. As much as I'm able, of course," Castiel replied, earnest as ever, and Sam's smile grew another half an inch.

"Thanks, Cas," Sam said, "I was planning to ask. Dean thinks this is a good idea too - he dug up some old notebooks he's been hanging onto, for me to transcribe. Makes this kind of a Winchester journal."

If the pleasure on Castiel had been radiant before, it was incandescent now. "As it should be."

There was a warm pause then, unhurried quiet as Castiel shifted to sit beside Sam's feet on the ledge. A little more comfortable now than before. "I'd like to hear it, if you wouldn't mind," Castiel said, eventually.

"You want me to read to you?" Sam asked.

"Yes," Castiel answered, not bothering to qualify it again with 'if that's all right,' or 'if it won't make you uncomfortable.' And that was good. That small trust. Built slowly on one another, like adding pages to the journal in his hands. Sam thought about it, smiled, and started in.

When he reached the feather bookmark, he looked up, and realized Castiel's hand rested on his shin. Maybe it had been there all along, but missed, as Sam re-lived the memories he'd already put down. The warmth of him bled through Sam's jeans, stark against the icy April breeze. Castiel didn't seem to register that Sam stopped reading. His face was up, eyes shut and turned to the sun with a soft, pleased smile on his lips. Sam paused, tracing the shape of him into memory. He swallowed, felt the heat seem to travel from Castiel's hand to warm the rest of him, and held his breath.

"You left one thing out, about the angels," Castiel observed. He opened his eyes again; seemed to touch down to Earth somehow. Like he'd been gone. His gaze was frank now, blazing at Sam like a miniature sun.

"Yeah?" Sam replied with a shrug, forced to breathe as the statement demanded an answer.

"One angel, at least." The hand that was still on Sam's shin slid upward. They both watched it move.

"That you are loved," Castiel continued, "and you are welcomed, and you are wanted."

The truth of things snapped into place. Sam felt like he'd run a marathon. "Well, um, I hadn't gotten to you yet," he breathed, around a surge of adrenaline and arousal about equally mixed. He dropped his feet to the floor and leaned forward. Into Castiel. Into being something more.

"I'm available for research," Castiel replied, and kissed him.


End file.
